


Trilogy

by irisbleufic



Category: La Chanson de Roland | The Song of Roland
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What Oliver remembers is that it had been an accident.</i>
</p><p>(Originally posted to LJ from late '06 through early '07.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Accidents

**Author's Note:**

> This little trilogy of four happened over some months spanning my final year as an undergraduate and my first year as a graduate student. As a sometime medievalist with equal interest in Middle English and in Anglo-Norman literature, I suppose a project like this one was ultimately unavoidable. Roland and Oliver deserved far more than they got, so I've done my utmost to see it given.

What Oliver remembers is that it had been an accident.  
  
From the very start, Roland was nearly impossible to best at swordplay. That their very first duel as champions for their lords ended in a draw was miracle enough; they had embraced as brothers, swearing eternal allegiance. Besides, Roland had grinned as he drew off his helmet, gasping and staggering, and that was enough. Oliver hadn't expected a smile so gracelessly earnest on a warrior so skilled. And then, Roland had laughed and that was the end of it. When Charles the Great called him to arms, Oliver accepted.  
  
New-minted knights and first among the Peers, what should they be but Companions?  
  
Aix was far from Oliver's home, an interminable northward journey. Never before had he endured the hard marching required of an emperor's full-fledged army. Roland's boundless energy saw him through the worst of circumstances—wind and water, chill and storm—and Oliver drew upon it as sustenance. In turn, Oliver talked them through the long nights, eyes fixed on the single stone oil lamp that Roland permitted in their tent.  
  
"Is she beautiful, your sister?" Roland asked one evening, chin resting on his forearms, elbow digging into Oliver's side. He jiggled it.  
  
With just a breath of wind seeping in from outside, Oliver felt cramped. He rolled over to escape Roland's heckling, colliding uncomfortably with the side of the tent.

"She's my _sister_ ," he said, struggling to inch back onto his bedding while flat on his back. "What do you think me? Some lawless, lecherous, incestuous—"  
  
"I asked you merely if she was beautiful," Roland said, scooting closer, rustling his own bedding on the sparse grass. "Surely a brother may appreciate his sister's beauty."  
  
"By God, she is well enough," Oliver said irritably, tossing one arm across his eyes. "I suppose you hope for betrothal so that we may never be parted. Truly, Roland. Your anxiety is as baffling as…as..."  
  
"As what?" Roland asked innocently, leaning over such that his hair, a loose, dirty gold when free of his helmet, fell inches from Oliver's face. "Well?"  
  
"As your interest in my sister," Oliver said, proud of his cleverness.  
  
Roland's brow furrowed, and he swept his hair out of his eyes (his commonest gesture of frustration). "I know not what you mean," he said, and at least _sounded_ honest.  
  
Oliver blew an irritated puff of breath at the stretched-taut hide above them.

"You do not even remember her name," he replied.  
  
"I do so," Roland objected. "It's lovely, yet has a barbaric sound."

"I do wish you'd shut up about my sister."  
  
"I'm not interested in your sister," Roland said, but whether the hurt in his tone was feigned or not, Oliver couldn't be sure. "You said so yourself, and as everybody knows, _you_ are always right. I'm brash—therefore, stupid—and you are my translator."  
  
Oliver huffed with laughter, finally meeting Roland's eyes. They caught the lamplight dully, murky silver-grey as clouds. "Such that I must translate you even for yourself?"  
  
"Of course," Roland said simply. He neither smiled, nor laughed.  
  
"I see," Oliver said, which was an outright lie. They'd shared evenings like this for ten months and more, perhaps a year, and Roland had never once mentioned his sister. He could not make heads or tails of what his usually boisterous companion was on about.  
  
"Of course you don't," Roland said, his hand unexpectedly emerging in Oliver's field of vision. "There is not enough light in here by far."  
  
"Is…that so?" Oliver thought that this was the worst possible time for Turpin's wine to turn his head, but that was the only explanation. Roland's fingers were against Oliver's temple now, not moving to flick back a strand of hair, just resting there as if they had every right. He wanted to say something else, but he couldn't phrase it immediately in Roland's vernacular, which frustrated him. "That is, I _mean_ …"  
  
"…that you did not understand what I mean," Roland finished helpfully, drawing his hand back just far enough that Oliver could still grab it if he had a mind to, which he did.  
  
"Your ways try me," Oliver said, lacing their fingers together for emphasis. "Often."  
  
"Oh," Roland said softly, then squeezed Oliver's fingers in his grasp for a sign of understanding. "I hope that I have not vexed you terribly, then," he continued, the closest that he had ever come to apology, "and that it will not vex you to know that I asked after your sister's beauty on the account that, no matter how great, it cannot possibly exceed yours."  
  
"That is the worst comparison—" Oliver began, but he did not get to finish because Roland had silenced him with a brush of his lips.  
  
"All my lack of skill," Roland said, suddenly smiling, sun in full splendor against Oliver's mouth, "and all my thoughtless acts…"  
  
They had kissed before, warm reconciliation cheek upon cheek, after practice duels, after bouts of wrestling—helmets dropped, swords forgotten. Surely that was all that Roland had meant, that familiar gentle offering in the wake of rigorous parrying, a draw zealously earned.

Oliver closed his eyes and turned to meet the second press of Roland's coaxing mouth.  
  
_And all my trespasses of silence_ …  
  
Their hands still held firm, by now crushed alongside Oliver's head, his arm bent stiffly back. The wind was whistling now, an uncomfortable draft, but Roland's mouth was all wet heat and clashing teeth, a different kind of storm. Shivering, Oliver twisted closer to Roland's warmth. He kicked into something at their feet, causing a clatter.  
  
Roland's explosive laughter was awkwardly muffled against Oliver's cheek.

"Do you mean to wake the whole camp in order to make a fool of me?"  
  
"You make a fool of yourself," Oliver said, but instead of giving him a reproachful look, he wrapped his arms around Roland's waist and hauled him off the bedroll. "One day, they will say—"  
  
_That you are a bastard_ , Oliver thought, because the wine had his speech again, and Roland was at his neck with tongue and teeth in the most unplanned assault known to Christendom.

Oliver laughed, startled, and sucked his breath into silence, eyes wide, as Roland looked up just long enough to give him a warning glance, then nosed into Oliver's unlaced tunic with a happy sigh. Oliver bit his tongue and threaded his fingers in Roland's messy hair.

Already he was trembling, his body tense with unspoken want.  
  
"They will say what?" Roland asked, gathering both their tunics up about their waists, clumsy with the sweat-dampened fabric. He swore, untangling his hands.  
  
"I…" Oliver swallowed, flushed with the sudden burn of skin against skin. He let go of Roland's hair and let his fingers drift down to pick at Roland's sticky tunic, unconsciously helpful. "I'm not sure," he whispered. Roland was hard against him, nestled in the crease of his thigh, and what Oliver wanted was to stay like this, kissing, well into morning.  
  
"Then it was not important," Roland murmured, and clasped Oliver to him with the strength he usually reserved for combat. "But I think…"  
  
"No, you don't," Oliver gasped, but it was a lost cause. The next moment, he found his head cradled to Roland's shoulder, their legs tangled, and he thought of nothing but the way Roland moved, and, a short time later, it wrung his pleasure from him in an uncontrollable shudder.  
  
"I will remember," Roland grunted, "for future reference—that you are highly— _excitable_." He smothered his shout against Oliver's neck, which was rather an inconvenience, because Oliver's ears still rang with his own foolish moaning. Surely they'd been heard!  
  
Oliver shoved Roland onto his back, then sprawled on top of him with a sigh. Words, clearly, had no use here. Kisses, which required no dialectal mastery, _did._  
  
What Oliver knows is that accidents often cannot be prevented.


	2. Safe

"In all your life, I swear, you have never been so foolish."  
  
Oliver spoke harshly, words falling upon Roland's ears like the swiftest of blows. He ducked inside the tent, not daring to look back, knowing that his companion would follow. Roland unpinned his cloak and let it fall, then sighed. No use; Oliver was standing behind him, maddening and immovable and _always right_.  
  
"I fear that you will come to regret your words," he said gently, touching Roland's shoulder. Salve to heal previous harshness, precious in its rarity.  
  
"Well, he is gone," Roland said, taking hold of Oliver's hand. "If he comes to harm, it's no fault of mine. You feared that I would pick a fight, but I swear to you, fear for my stepfather the more." He inclined his head, studying their battle-rough fingers.  
  
Oliver sighed—rare again, that restraint, when he is hell-bent on chiding—and rested his forehead against Roland's hair. "You are not so unlike each other, though it grieves you to hear," he said quietly, grip tightening, ready to be fought.  
  
"Ay, no," Roland said, setting his jaw. If Oliver could stay himself, then by God, so he would in kind. "Kindly do not mention it again."  
  
Oliver drew in his breath, startled.

"Lord companion," he whispered. " _Vos voeillez_."  
  
" _My wish_ ," Roland said, turning, "is that this night may pass in peace, if for no other reason that our dear King's plague-hound is amidst vermin very like itself."  
  
Oliver frowned as Roland drew his hand to his breast, sea-dark eyes troubled. Ah, there was beauty in him that Aude could not dream of. When he smiled…  
  
"Forgive me," Roland said, closing both hands over the still fingers curled at his breast. "My wish, then, is to see _you_ at peace."  
  
Oliver laughed, then, sudden and unbidden as the rain that afternoon.

"You know well, Roland," he said, clarity like lightning in his glance, "that I cannot cease to worry, what when it's yourself you've put in danger."  
  
"Less danger than others," Roland said dismissively, patting Oliver's hand. Enough of this sulking; camp was struck, and soon the dusk would glow with torches all about. "I shall keep you safe," he said under his breath, pulling Oliver's body in to meet their hands. "After all, you insist."  
  
Oliver opened his mouth, closed it, and then narrowed his eyes.

"I did no such—"  
  
"I'm safe here, too," Roland said softly, and lifted Oliver's fingers to his lips.  
  
" _Compris_ ," Oliver murmured, pressing the word to the back of Roland's hand.


	3. Rest for the Wicked

The man who approaches is an intruder, but he walks as one who is not.  
  
"Fair evening to you both," he says in a calm voice. His eyes are dark in the dusk, but they are no brighter by day. His fine clothing is marked by wind and sweat; he has ridden a hard day's journey in half a day's time. Expectant, he pauses.  
  
"Indeed, it is evening," Roland says, though he does not turn his head. His gaze remains fixed upon his companion. "Though now I cannot say that it is fair."  
  
"The rain is long past," Oliver responds, and he turns to the intruder with a bow. "God keep you, Lord Ganelon. I have heard of your success at Saragossa."  
  
Ganelon does not blink, but considers his stepson instead.

"Thus news travels in these ranks," he says, stepping closer. "So avidly you spoke to one another not a moment or two past—"  
  
"That is not for you to know," Roland snaps, jaw tight with fury. He turns, facing his stepfather, and the wind draws nigh from the distant, shadowed passes. He does not look to his companion, does not see that Oliver, too, has taken a step, or that Oliver's hand beneath his cloak is on the clear hilt of his sword.  
  
"No," Ganelon agrees, his tone mild. "What passes between you is in God's eyes alone."  
  
The wind carries with it what the young men do not know; it carries Ganelon away as quietly as he came. It carries the memory of his footsteps amongst the tents on other nights, and it carries the trace of what he has heard in those hushed hours before dawn.  
  
"And the devil take you," Oliver whispers, "as far as God can spit."  
  
Roland is startled, and he staggers toward Oliver as if struck.

"Surely he has not—"  
  
"Few things are certain," Oliver says curtly, and his expression is strangely intent. He stands in silence a few seconds more before he grasps Roland by the arm. "Except that we must go; it grows late. The passes await, and they are treacherous."  
  
Roland seems lost for words, and his hand hovers over his companion's, not quite touching. 

Without comment, Oliver lets go of Roland's arm and grasps his hand instead. He turns and begins to walk, drawing Roland after him. Roland stumbles again, and as they pass a torch posted outside the King's tent, the flames catch in his pale eyes. For an instant, they burn with stifled fear. 

And Oliver does not see, single-minded on his path.  
  
They have been sharing a tent for as long as either one can remember. On this night, they are far from the King, far from the elder lords and clergy. The grass is high, in most places untrampled, and Roland is near breathless with being dragged, near weary with tripping. What he sees is the line of Oliver's cheek, red by fire and moonlight and the wave of his hair escaping its hasty plait. He moves faster than a ghost on the breeze.  
  
Roland has never been forced—like a rebuked child—back to his domain. Oliver has never touched him thus where others might see. They have seldom walked hand in hand.  
  
The flap of the tent strikes Oliver hard across the face as he enters, but he does not pause to hold it clear for Roland. He does not let go of Roland's hand until they are within and closed off from the chill, and the lamp spits and flickers in the last of its oil.  
  
Roland wrenches his hand away, then seizes Oliver by the shoulders.

"What do you mean by this?" he demands, forcing them face to face. "It vexes me," he whispers, searching the only eyes that he has ever known by heart, "when you speak in riddles."  
  
"Then I'll not speak," Oliver says, determined, and kisses Roland on the mouth.  
  
As in his touch, there is roughness in his embrace. Roland cannot stagger this time, for Oliver is holding him, and he has no choice but to hold in return. There have been other kisses between them, kisses beyond counting, kisses on cheeks and hands and on the lips in darkness, but not a kiss such as this. Roland tastes steel on Oliver's tongue.  
  
"I did not mean…" Roland touches the hair at Oliver's nape and feels whatever holds it give way, spilling softness through his fingers. He draws the strands out, shivering.  
  
"Show me," Oliver breathes, tense with anger.  
  
Roland is hurt only insofar as his confusion permits. He finds it easy to crush Oliver to him as he was crushed a moment ago, pressing their foreheads together blindly. Oliver jumps at the touch of Roland's tongue. Roland hums at the taste of smoke and sweat.  
  
Their bedding comes sooner underfoot than Roland expects. From what he can discern in the dimness, Oliver's eyes are wide and uncertain. Oliver sinks under the pressure of Roland's hands at his shoulders, knees hitting the ground painfully. Not even the skewed blankets and lumpy woven pallet can prevent Roland from knocking him breathless. He struggles briefly, then falls still, arms flung above his head. Roland is looking at him as if it is all he intends to do.  
  
Oliver dresses himself in too many layers. His cloak is tangled about him, and long, awkward minutes pass before Roland manages to unpin and tug it free. Oliver is careful not to shift, watching Roland's every move. His companion's brow is fierce with concentration as he smooths the cloak away, spreading it under them.  
  
Roland wears no cloak, so Oliver finds his work simple. When he draws Roland's tunic up from the waist, Roland chokes on a laugh, and it occurs to Oliver that he has never given much thought to the fact that Roland is ticklish. Oliver sits up to tug the garment off Roland's head and arms, noticing a faint line on his chest. Roland helps him toss the tunic aside, then studies him as best he can through the strands of hair fallen in his eyes. He follows Oliver's gaze to the scar.  
  
"I don't remember when it happened," Roland says quietly, unable to move.  
  
With honest clarity, Oliver responds, "I do."  
  
Roland trembles under the brush of his fingers, eyes closing.

Oliver traces the line into nothingness, the path between two of Roland's ribs, and he does not stop even there. His fingertips trace the curve of Roland's side—just _there_ , an eruption of harsh laughter—and trail up the length of his spine. Roland shivers again, leaning forward, and knows with final certainty that this is not a game.  
  
Even in the absence of light, nakedness is impossible to hide. Oliver sheds the rest of his clothing quickly, even clumsily, and Roland finds himself helpless to do anything but watch. With each erratic flare of the lamp, skin fresh to his eyes shimmers white. He surrenders to discomfort and rises, stripping himself. What he will remember first, always, is Oliver's hands sliding up his thighs before he can sit down again, those sea-dark eyes upturned in wonder.  
  
Roland thinks that his knees might give way.

" _Cumpainz_ _—_ "  
  
Oliver nods, hands sliding up, fingers splaying over Roland's hips as he falls.  
  
If Roland should come to damnation for this, then he thinks that he might bear it gladly. He twists, helpless, but Oliver has his wrists pinned at his sides. Oliver counts his own breaths, in and out, eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Roland's chest. Yes, he must do this. When Oliver's lips brush Roland's stomach, Roland chokes. Oliver does not think about what he has heard of this, of what he is about to do. Roland winds his fingers in Oliver's hair and believes he must be dreaming.  
  
The skin of Roland's inner thigh is damp and smooth, and when Oliver nuzzles there, Roland gasps. He lets go of Roland's wrists and touches his tongue to the spot, catching Roland's hips, holding him still. Roland shakes as if frozen to the bone, so Oliver draws him in slowly.  
  
When Roland sobs his name, he swallows the bitter-salt taste in shock.  
  
Oliver cannot think over the string of gasped apologies, the urgent flutter of fingers in his hair. He sits back, and the fingers pull briefly before falling away, and draws the back of his hand across his mouth. Roland cannot gather his thoughts sufficient to express why his heart is pounding, why he would simply like to die of shame. Oliver is looking at him as if he has never seen him before, maybe because he would never like to see him again.  
  
Roland draws his arms up to hide his face, but Oliver is already stretched over him, already pinning his wrists again, this time above his head. And he realizes, somewhere beneath being kissed within a hair's breadth of his life, that they are here and breathing despite all that they have done and all that they surely will do. Amazed, he wrenches his hands free of Oliver's grasp and winds his arms around his companion's heated, trembling body. He glides his palms from shoulders to back, from back to hips, all the while patiently listening. Oliver is breathing harshly in his ear now, one hand clutched in Roland's hair, the other fisted in his cloak.  
  
" _Je vos ai,_ " Roland murmurs, _I have you_ , and catches him with both hands.


	4. Epilogue: Sand, Tree, Stone

_**1\. Sand** _

**  
** They made it to the sea before they began the long march back. 

The water is as darkly bright as it was then, and the wind skims the sandy, scrub-lined shore where the footsteps of soldiers have long since been replaced by the bare feet of strangers. They prefer the softness of the low strands to the harshness of the ridge, but the ridge holds in its sandy soil buttons, spear-heads, and ivory needles.  
  
It holds a father's wish for his headstrong son, though he never made it that far.  
  
It also holds a sister's wish for her brother, that he return to her safely again.  
  
The strangers, unknowing, gather shells and drop them in their pockets. If they were to dig deeper, they might find the buttons and needles. They might remember that the thing to do is use the buttons to replace lost ones, and to use the needle to prick holes in the shells and sew them to their hats. Then, perhaps, they might hear the voices, splashes, and laughter.  
  
They might find the spear-heads, or an oil lamp, and remember that to love is to die.  
  
  


_**2\. Tree** _

  
They rushed down the green-shrouded passes without warning, leaves stuck in their armor and their hair, taking each and every thing—man or beast, pack or priest—that stood in their path. 

They rivers ran with blood and the boughs bent low, unable to curb a battle already lost. The trunks are scarred with arrow-pricks and sword-hacks: the last words of fathers, sons, and brothers.  
  
The trees do not know they are traitors, nor can they prevent it from happening to others.  
  
  


_**3\. Stone** _

  
It lies buried beneath the trees, cracked, its two halves barely touching.  
  
One day, when a team of scholars with tools pries it from shady, earthy oblivion, they will remark upon its brokenness in hushed, hopeful tones. Next, they will remark upon its whiteness, and someone in the company who cannot dig, but who is there because she knows the words, will say that west and slightly south lies a tomb carved of the same brightness: a sarcophagus for two, unsplit and unopened. With great strain, she will take the heavy halves in her hands and pray.  
  
Wind will rush in from the sea, down the passes: the memory of a blade.

And the stone, pieces fitted, will catch the lamp's flame in the sun.


End file.
